


quiescency

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Series: a return to eden [1]
Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Gen, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Not AU, Not Beta Read, Not very long either, Since the tags seem to mostly be about things this is not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21713599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: “What a beautiful portrait,” the teenager gasps, his admiration genuine. “Is it of me?”The boy pauses, reconsidering the picture. It is yet unfinished. He cannot recall when he started it.“No,” he says at length.
Relationships: Bartimaeus/Nathaniel (Bartimaeus), Bartimaeus/Ptolemy (Bartimaeus), Nathaniel & Ptolemy
Series: a return to eden [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568605
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	quiescency

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nope. 
> 
> Author’s Note: What the hell am I meant to do with all of these #feels in the year of our Lord 2019?

\---

quiescency

\---

It is a lovely garden. Thin and long, with borders framed by a rose-webbed brick wall. The stained-glass flowers of two rhododendron bushes bob in the breeze, the dew that dapples their leaves making kaleidoscopes of the colors that hide in the pale spring light. In the sunny glow of it all, the lichen upon an ancient stone bench seems particularly green.

There is something diaphanous about the scene, something gauzy and ethereal and pure; its innocence complements the sweetness of the air, and the elegance of the apple blossoms that towering trees are shedding to his left. His right. High above, the boughs of a horse chestnut sway, their own blooms redolent of ceremonial bells.

Idly, the little boy below brushes fallen petals from his sketchbook. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” 

At the interruption, the child glances up, too serene to be startled. Before him stands another boy— no, a bit older, a teenager, though barely— with kind, dark eyes in a kind, dark face. His smile is the kindest thing of all. 

“’Course not,” the boy agrees, scooting down the length of the bench. He takes his pens with him, and his modest bag of pencils. His new companion bows to show his gratitude, then settles beside him with a book of his own. One for notes, rather than drawings. 

He writes for a while. The boy continues his drawing. Their silence is companionable. Once or twice, the curious child glances over to see what his new friend is scribbling— an intrusion of privacy that the teenager does not seem to mind— but he finds he cannot parse the symbols that the other uses. This bothers the boy less than he expects it to. 

Neither is he bothered when his work is looked upon in kind. 

“What a beautiful portrait,” the teenager gasps, his admiration genuine. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear as he leans closer, noting the thin scar upon the sketch's chin, the minute moles that dot the neck. Such detail, such delicacy. “Is it of me?” 

The boy pauses, reconsidering the picture. It is yet unfinished. He cannot recall when he started it.

“No,” he says at length. Bluntly, but gentle. He sounds almost ponderous. “No, it’s not. The eyes, see. His eyes are… deeper.” 

“Ah, indeed.” The other boy nods his agreement. “Well, then. Whose likeness _do_ you sketch?” 

Another silence. It is still companionable. Against their backs, roses twirl to majestic openness, fading from pink to red to rust. They wither into nothingness, only to bud from the same. 

“I see.” In the vernal haze, the teenager’s features are so gentle they almost hurt to look upon. “Do you remember much?”

“Oh, yes!” The little boy perks to have been asked, his cheeks and ear-tips as warm as his voice when he proclaims, “I remember that I was loved.” On his face is an expression of awe and amazement, as if even now this knowledge is to him as incredible as magic. “Someone loved me! _Me!_ Why, I can’t imagine there’s anything else _worth_ remembering, really.” 

A beat. His flush takes on an embarrassed tinge when he finally thinks to add, “How about you? Do you remember anything? If I’m not being rude...” 

The other’s pause is thoughtful. So is his glance at his writings.

“I remember that I loved,” he tells the boy at last. Slowly, and carefully, and earnestly. “In truth, that’s the reason why I wait. _He_ is the reason why I wait. If death is the great equalizer, as it has thus far proved itself to be, then I have finally found a place where we might meet as true equals. So… well. I should very much like to be around when he finally arrives.”

At this, the boy blinks, faintly surprised. “Do you know,” he says, astonished but approving, “I had the very same idea?”

The teenager chuckles. “Yes, I rather thought you had. Why else choose such an exquisite place to pass the time?” 

From somewhere unseen, a single bird calls. A lapwing, perhaps. Together they listen, but soon the song fades. 

The two exchange grins. Another rose is born, then dies. Is born again. 

“Do you think,” the boy asks, selecting a different pencil from his pouch, “that we’ll be waiting long?” He sharpens its end, revealing charcoal that is only midnight-black. It shall have to do. 

The other considers, his stylus’ tip tapping against his teeth. 

“Hmm,” he muses. “Hard to say. I expect that time works differently here, as it often does in other places… But,” he admits, biting his lip, “I do hope that we shall.” 

With a touch that is achingly tender, the boy deepens the portrait’s eyes. He has drawn them to be infinite and empyrean, uncanny and spirited. They are exactly as he remembers them. 

He beams. 

“I hope so, too.”

\---


End file.
